


Buggery

by AtomicBloom



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Angst, Cultural Differences, Eventual Smut, Humor, M/M, Misunderstandings, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Oviposition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-18 17:38:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13686537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtomicBloom/pseuds/AtomicBloom
Summary: The disaster that is Bob trying to court Prowl while simultaneously fending off those that would see Prowl dead.





	Buggery

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BalloonArcade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BalloonArcade/gifts).



> Here you go. Instead of doing the right thing and stopping me when I am at my worst all you do is egg me on. Enjoy the fruits of my labor. You, darling, you.

He followed Prowl as stealthily a giant, heavily armored person could, which wasn’t very much. The floor of this ship was not like the softer ground of the planet below. His feet clacked with every step he took. Nevertheless, he was determined not to fall behind. Nobody was going to kill Prowl. Not on his watch. Those assassins can take the noise as a warning.

_This is the sound of your death._

He meant it too. He remembered the way the smell of blood soaked the air when people finally noticed that one of their own was missing. Some days he could still smell it, harsh, and metallic. The memory made him bolder, he trailed close behind Prowl now, and what a behind it was: perfection really, harsh angles that softened to the barest hint of a curve at the hips, between two prominent thighs, silky paint that made Bob want to– 

Prowl abruptly came to a halt. Bob’s claws clicked against the floor as he skidded to a stop before he rear ended Prowl, not that Bob was opposed to it, but they weren’t quite at that relationship level. Prowl’s wings were held rigidly away from his back at a precise 45 degree angle. Bob inhaled deep, letting the pheromones wash over his receptors: scents from various mecha that he had already cataloged, the zinc coating of the hallway, the polish Prowl uses, corky and just a little bit pungent– 

There wasn’t anything out of the ordinary.

Had Prowl noticed something he didn’t? He _was_ very observant. Bob scanned the hall, but it looked the way it always did. Bare double chrome plated walls with nary a distinguishing feature to help guide people through. It was lucky he had a great sense of smell. It was a wonder that mecha with their underdeveloped nasal receptors could navigate this labyrinth of a ship at all. Actually now that he was looking for it this hallway was a little familiar. His own scent was concentrated heavily around– Prowl rapped twice on a nearly invisible door flush with the wall. Bob’s antennae flickered forwards. How had he missed that? Some body guard he made. Cowardly assassins could be anywhere, shadowy sneaks that desired to prey upon the lovely, intelligent Prowl.

The door hissed open bringing in a wash of fresh, humid air that covered the stale air that occupied the hallway. Bob twitched. He knew this scent, Sunstreaker. His hivemate had bright splashes of paint smeared onto his forearms. He was begrudgingly wiping at them with a cloth that was leaving more streaks of color than it was removing.

“What– Prowl?” Sunstreaker’s eyes dropped down, “Bob?”

Bob didn’t know why mecha liked to ask so many obvious questions. There wasn’t any other insecticon on board, and he smells the way he always had. Who else could he be? Bob sighed. Their feebleness was in their nature, so Bob forgave the lapse. He had no idea how Sunstreaker managed to survive before, soft plated, dimwitted, slow reflexes– he would have been cracked open by a sparkeater in the wastes. Bob gritted his teeth. It didn’t matter how Sunstreaker had done it, because he would never have to do it again. Not while they had each other. Two people could hardly call themselves a proper hive, but Bob would rip the spine out of anyone who suggested they weren’t. He knew Sunstreaker would do the same.

Bob eased around Prowl, and gently nudged Sunstreaker aside with his head, careful to use the only part of himself not covered in spikes, until he moved aside enough for him to enter their shared habsuite.

“This can’t keep happening.” Prowl sounded stiff, “I had several important meetings I couldn’t complete, because your pet wouldn’t let them in.”

Bob stepped over the paint pans Sunstreaker had left scattered across the floor. Normally, Bob would have no issue pointedly gnawing on whatever mess he had left on Bob’s side of the habsuite, but when Sunstreaker painted he was happy. It was the only time Bob allowed him to be messy. 

Bob angled his antennae back. Sunstreaker’s scent soured at the perceived insult. Bob hasn’t proved his mettle to Prowl yet, he huffed. Of course he would challenge him. His hivemate could be quite obtuse in the ways of love.

The sound of cloth rubbing metal stopped.

“Don’t call him that,” Sunstreaker said softly

“Sunstreaker–“

“No.” The grinding noise of a clenched hand, “I would think someone as intelligent as you Prowl would only to be told this once, and yet.”

“My apologies. I wasn’t trying to offend–“

“Did you tell Bob that you were expecting guests?”

“Why would I do that? Look, Sunstreaker I understand that you care for your,” an annoyed exhaled, “Bob, but this is getting ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous,” Sunstreaker repeated flatly.

Bob gave a short warning whistle which was promptly ignored like the rest of his whistles. This is why he had always stayed on the fringes of his old hive. He didn’t want to deal with the drama that bickering hivemates brought. Although, Prowl wasn’t a hivemate, not yet. Bob was courting him. Perhaps that was the problem. Bob would have to spend some time with Sunstreaker, so he would know that he wasn’t planning on abandoning him anytime soon.

Bob edged around the half finished painting: bright purples, and yellows, and headed to the boxes shoved up against the back wall. None of them had lids, he noted with disapproval. He would have to find where Sunstreaker had hidden them later. For now, It did make Bob’s task easier. Clean squares of organic cloth were wedged untidily besides the filthy ones. Bob grabbed one with his forelimb, reconsidered, and gathered two solid clawfuls of them. Sunstreaker was a messy mech. Bob flared his back plates. He laid the soft squares, so the edges of them would be caught underneath his plates. His clamped his plates shut, pinching them in place. Bob gave a testing flex. He was satisfied when nothing moved. They wouldn’t be going anywhere like this.

“Yes. Ridiculous,” Prowl said. “Bob is not a member of this crew. You are. One of the conditions of your parole was that you would ensure that Bob was not harassing anyone–“

“He’s not–” Sunstreaker exhaled harshly out his nose. “Prowl, you nearly died. He’s concerned about you.”

“I don’t need his concern.”

“Really?” The rubbing picked back up. “I don't see anyone else worried for you, but I guess you must be used to that. After what happened with Chromedome, I mean, ouch. I didn’t know your options were so plentiful.”

“You are over the line.”

Bob heard the scuffling noise of metal on metal. His antennae shot up, but he didn’t catch the awful scent of broken lines. 

“That’s you actually– you’re in my personal space– yeah. That’s what I thought.”

Bob made his way back to them, he was _not_ panicking no matter how tangy his own scent had gotten, and he didn’t like what he saw. Sunstreaker had his arm outstretched blocking off the door. It was hard to see past his hivemate’s frame, but he could see Prowl’s clenched fists, and the smells– Bob tried to hop over the paint pans a little faster.

“Sorry, I’m not like you.” Prowl put his hand on his cocked hip, “So desperate for any company you’ll take an Insecticon and pretend it’s your friend.”

Sunstreaker laughed, high and shrill.

“That’s funny. Back then, when Bob found me, the only thing I was desperate for was to be anyone, _anyone_ but myself. I used to fantasize about it; taking on the identity of someone else. Decepticon, Autobot, Neutral— It didn’t matter as long as I wasn’t me. But, you? I never wanted to be you.”

Bob rushed up behind his hivemate’s back. Letting another warning whistle. This was getting too tense for his tastes. They didn’t even pretend that they could hear him. Bob didn’t know why he bothered with diplomacy.

“You don’t have to worry about Bob. You just keep acting the way you do and soon enough– what was it that you said the other day?” Sunstreaker snapped his fingers, “Ah. Right, and soon enough not even a _near brainless automaton_ will care about you.”

Prowl’s hand trembled for a moment before he whirled around. He rapidly became a distant figure as he speed walked away.

“You have a nice day now!” Sunstreaker called after him.

What was Sunstreaker doing! Prowl was getting away. Bob pressed his head against the back of Sunstreaker’s legs, but he refused to budge. Instead, Sunstreaker hit the close door button which allowed Bob one final glimpse of door wings, before it snapped shut. Trapping them both inside. Bob hissed irate, and headbutted him with denting force.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. Gah. Bob, stop.”

Bob snarled, but he did stop. His point was crystal clear. Sunstreaker turned cautiously around, hands half raised in surrender. He opened and closed his mouth without saying anything. Sunstreaker’s face crumpled. With his back pressed against the door, he slid down into a heap of limbs. The stench of misery poured off of him. It was unpleasant, and the smell didn’t have any right to be lingering on his hivemate like this. Sunstreaker didn’t try to reach out for him, but Bob crowded close anyways. He bumped his head against Sunstreaker’s chest and tried to look as supportive as possible which is extremely difficult when one does not have the flexible faces of mecha. Bob was afraid he looked vaguely nauseous instead. Fortunately for him Sunstreaker didn’t notice. He hooked an arm around Bob’s shoulders and wedged his face underneath Bob's chin. Bob made a low churring sound.

“You can’t keep chasing after Prowl. You heard him. He doesn’t want you around,” Sunstreaker said muffled.

Bob chittered his disbelief. This was how courtship was. It always started out rocky at first. Sunstreaker was such a worrier. It’ll go fine. Bob had an 8 part plan. Besides they hadn’t caught the assassins yet. Somebody had to remain on guard.

“I’m serious. We’re already in trouble with Ultra Magnus, If Prowl reports this–“

Bob made a high shuddery whistle. There was no chance of that happening. Prowl was much too prideful to ask for help. He refused any escort the security team had offered him.

“He could. He was law enforcement. He— Bob would you please stop licking me?”

Could Sunstreaker and the rest of dirty kind maintain some form of personal hygiene? Apparently not. Bob licked a yellow paint patch off the back of Sunstreaker’s neck. It tasted like cadmium. Sunstreaker pushed at Bob’s chest, but Bob was much too heavy for his feeble arms to move. Bob licked him a few more times for good measure, before he relented to Sunstreaker’s wiggling and let him up. Sunstreaker pulled away, and wiped the back of his neck. He made a disgusted face at his hand. 

“Augh. Now I need a towel.”

Bob flared his back plating, and shook. Sending his thoughtfully collected cloths flying over Sunstreaker.

“Thanks Bob. Real helpful.”

Bob whistled cheerfully back. He always was of help. That’s what hive do for each other. Sunstreaker pulled one cloth off of his audial horn, and finally began to clean himself. Bob didn’t know why this had to be an ordeal, but mecha were a disorderly and unclean bunch as a rule not an exception.

“No, really thank you. You noticed I was using a rag, right? I didn’t have time to grab a clean one, so thanks for looking out for me.” Sunstreaker smiled.

Bob churred back at him.

“Do you want to see what I was working on? C’mon.” Sunstreaker got onto his clumsy, two feet and walked over to his metal canvas with Bob. He had to crane his head to get a look at it. Sunstreaker liked to paint standing up on an easel. The canvas itself was huge, nearly half of Sunstreaker’s height. Bob dutifully made an encouraging noise as he perused it. It was blotchy and thickly coated. Sunstreaker was still in the blocking in shapes stage of his painting. Bob didn’t see the appeal.

“Do you like it? It’s going to be a portrait of you.”

This made Bob take another, longer look at it. This is what he looked like from Sunstreaker’s eyes? The colors were vibrant, dare he say, dashing. Now that he he knew what to look for he could see the suggestion of antennae, the outline of a face, the bend of an eye. This was a profile shot of Bob. His head was upturned to the sky, his wings fanned out like the corona of a star. He looked delightful! 

Bob chittered in excitement.

Sunstreaker ducked his head, and starting picking up the paint pans from the floor.

“I don’t know when I’ll finish it. It’s a personal project, so I have to work on it between commissions. But, it’s for you, a reminder, that even when I am being an slagsucker, I still care about you–“

Bob was sure that Sunstreaker had this entire speech planned, but Bob could not contain himself any longer. He barreled into Sunstreaker full force. They went down hard in cacophony of curses and joyful whistles. The pans were crushed between them leaving them covered in a riot of colors. Bob couldn’t care less about the mess he will have to clean up later. Sunstreaker didn’t bother to pretend like he hated the affection. He clutched back at Bob, fingers holding tight. Bob’s entire being sung with glee. The only way this moment could be better was if there was a certain mech here too. Watching them contentedly from Bob’s half of the room. 

Soon, he promised, he would make that dream a reality.

~`~

Bob clicked his jaw in thought. By size, or by color? He surveyed his spoils of war with the diligence of a master. Neatly assembled in a row were 12 severed heads. He circled them again. Considering each in turn, checking for any imperfections that he had missed which would make them unsuitable. Bob clicked in satisfaction. They were perfect. Not a speck of energon on them, and they were polished to a sheen. The result of many years of hard work, but Prowl was worth it. The criteria of his selection was designed to showcase his versatility. It wasn’t traditional, but it was proof. Proof, that he could match whatever challenges that plagued Prowl. 

Bob thought he would appreciate the symbolism.

He picked up the biggest head, that one had been a pain to down, and laid it down face up in a nondescript box they had laying around. If he had the time, he would have crafted a lustrous container out of silk, but Prowl had waited long enough. _Bob_ had waited long enough. He stacked the rest of his assortment, until there was only one left. It was the best one in his collection. Rare yellow eyes deep set into a red crested helm. Bob was honestly regretful as he put it into the center of his head pyramid. The sacrifices he made for love. He bound the lid in place by a double length of wire. He didn’t want anything to come loose, and affixed it to his back with a pair of magnets he had borrowed from Wheeljack. When it felt secure he loped, not to the door, but to the air duct.

~`~

Bob did his best to wait patiently in a shadowed alcove by Prowl’s habsuite. 

It was over 3 hours past the time Prowl was supposed to get off his shift, but that was typical for him. Bob himself has been waiting twice that amount. He was too jittery to leave. Mecha acted in strange ways he didn’t understand. This was something he wanted to go right. Bob could almost feel his gift burning like a beacon through the wall. It was deposited in the place Prowl’s scent was most concentrated, his desk. Prowl was a secretive mech, to hide his working habits like this. Bob could be secretive. He could be as secretive as Prowl needed. The desk had been cluttered with stray files, and a glass of something disgusting. He did not know what purpose the spoiled energon served. A way to ward off intruders? It _was_ rather foul. Bob had been tempted to throw it away, but he could not bring himself to disrespect Prowl’s space like that. He had to admire that dedication to security. Bob couldn’t live like that.

Bob stilled when he heard the sound of someone walking down the hall. Prowl’s room was located in a secluded section of the ship. Unlike the rest of the officers who chose to be cloistered together, Prowl was the only living mecha here. Despite, the giant security risk that was, Bob couldn’t help but be grateful for the privacy. He didn’t want an audience for Prowl’s decision to Bob’s declaration, whatever it may be.

Whoever it was, if it wasn’t Prowl, but some miserable scrapheap who thought to try their luck at ending a mech 10 times their worth– Well. They would be in for a surprise.

Bob held himself motionless in the outgoing trash. His spikes blended in with the twisted shards of metal from the debris of the past battle. His eyes could be mistaken for a shadow. He was as hidden as he could get. Prowl rounded the corner. Attention fully consumed by a datapad in his hand. Bob had to suppress a trill. Prowl was _magnificent._ Wings tantalizingly outstretched for any passerby who might dare to touch, his searchlights sent motes of light scattering in a dizzying spectacle. Bob chanced a quick breath.

He caught the faint scent of burnt rubber from exertion, and an overwhelming scent of grease from overworked joints.

Bob didn’t recoil, but he did not inhale again. Sunstreaker insisted that Prowl did not understand his intentions, but why else would he do this to himself, if not to impress somebody. Bob has never wished that he could speak the clattering, ugly tongue of the mecha as did now. He would tell Prowl he need not go to such lengths. He was like the sky, full of lightening fast thoughts, clouds of untouchable calm– and no matter the storm he would always come out on top. Nobody could look upon him and not feel awe.

Prowl’s wings folded back as he entered the code to his door, framing his spine. A runway directing the gaze down. Bob gave a soundless sigh of yearning. Prowl was a dreadful tease. He didn't look up from his datapad as he went into his habsuite. Bob had to choke off a shrill whistle. The assassins have their job half done for them. All they need to do is stand there, knife at the ready, and Prowl would walk into it, oblivious to the danger before him! 

Bob gnashed his mandibles. 

The sooner Prowl moved in with him the better.

Bob watched the now closed door expectantly, but Prowl did not come back out. He shifted anxiously amid the debris. He hated waiting. The room was soundproof against even his superior hearing. He had no way of knowing what was happening inside short of climbing back into the vents. Prowl’s habsuite was rather plain, Bob mused, if he accepted them he should hang the heads up. The color would give the room a lively flair.

Bob counted the rivets in the walls, lost count, and started again. He gave up the fourth time he did this. This is why he never went with Sunstreaker on stalking missions. He much rather attack his prey outright. He rocked back and forth on his feet, heedless of the noise the shifting metal was causing. Perhaps, if Prowl was alerted he would come back out again. There was nothing. Bob wilted. The security team truly was a bunch of– Bob sighed his heart wasn’t up to insulting them again. They did that enough themselves with their own behavior. 

Shaking off stray metal, Bob sadly got to his feet. He could no longer wait. Sunstreaker was going to be back from his mission soon. Bob wanted to be there in case he was injured like usual. He trudged back to the populated areas. The lack of any motion was a good sign, he told himself, it was better than Prowl exiting to throw the box onto the trash pile. What did he expect, for Prowl to come out singing praises?

Bob let out a sparkfelt sigh. Being in love was tough.

Bob was so despondent he nearly missed a pair of incoming legs. Dodging around a distracted Ultra Magnus; Bob shrieked at him. Who did Ultra Magnus think he is? Was he attempting to mow down every person smaller than him out of jealousy of their better center of gravity? He picked the wrong person try this with. Bob had no sentimental attachment to authority. He would rip Ultra Magnus to pieces. But, Ultra Magnus walked passed him without further aggression, and Bob noted aggrieved, without an apology. Bob glared, miffed at his retreating back, but Ultra Magnus jolted, and spun around, sprinting back to Bob.

“Bob! You like watching Prowl. Have you seen any suspicious mechs around Prowl’s room today?”

Bob shook his head. He didn’t smell anyone either. Nobody would get past him. Despite, Ultra Magnus’s alarming hatred of any not his freakish size Bob was glad he seemed to care about Prowl’s safety. Too many have outright ignored the danger.

Ultra Magnus looked disappointed and said, “I see. Please alert any member of the security team, if you do.”

He bustled back down the hall out of sight, sparing no farewell. Bob bristled slightly. In that direction laid Prowl’s room. He had just gotten off shift and should be resting. Surely whatever Ultra Magnus wanted could wait until after Prowl had gotten some quality sleep. Bob studied the length of the hall thoughtfully. It would be simple enough for him to cut off Ultra Magnus, before he could disrupt Prowl’s needed quiet, but he forced himself to continue on his way back to his own habsuite. For Ultra Magnus to forget the niceties he was so fond of in his hurry he must’ve want to consult Prowl on a case. Prowl had been cross with him the last time he had tried to keep out interlopers. Ultra Magnus should want to consult Prowl. Bob thought, He was fiercely brilliant. They were lucky to have him on their side. Bob just wished it didn’t have to come at the expense of his health. 

Prowl deserved the peace of mind.

~`~  
Bob heard the hissing door that marked the entry of his hivemate, but he could not be bothered to lift his head up to greet him. He was curled in the closet, half collapsed on a box. He was never going to leave here again.

“Bob?” Footsteps approached, something crinkled, “Did you hear? Somebody is threatening Prowl again, and they’ve escalated. In his habsuite they found a box of–“

Bob’s snarl rattled the air. He knew. It was all the ship could gossip about. He couldn’t escape it.

Bob hooked his chin over the edge of the box to peer into its depths. It peered back. Eyes shattered, and mouths gaping. The much larger collection of damaged heads he had gathered mocked him. Perhaps he had misjudged Prowl, and he preferred quantity over quality. Prowl could make a nest out of all of the defective heads. These heads, Bob had struggled to cleanly sever them while they were screaming and flailing. His box of mistakes. He would have crawled in there too, if he could fit. It was where he belonged.

“What’s wrong?” Sunstreaker’s voice came from the other side of the door. “I thought you would’ve been all over this like the way you’ve been with Prowl’s aft–“

Light blazed in, illuminating all of Bob’s regrets. Bob didn’t look at him.

“Oh, Bob,” Sunstreaker sighed.

His hivemate studied him in silence, framed by the doorway. His primitive processor, Bob supposed, must be struggling to come to a course of action. Bob would have thought the answer obvious. Sunstreaker should fetch Ultra Magnus. They will come to put the rabid animal down, and Sunstreaker will be celebrated by the crew for catching ‘a sick monster.’ Bob found the courage to look at his hivemate, but he didn’t understand the arrangement his face had settled into. It was simpler with Insecticons. He knew by smell alone how fragged he was.

His hivemate finally moved to– clamber in the closet as well.

Bob blinked at him dumbfounded, but Sunstreaker did not turn to face him. His hivemate shifted some boxes away, making a little space for himself to sit in. He wedged himself between the box of cleaner and the box of pornographic material Sunstreaker thought Bob didn’t know about. Sunstreaker remotely closed the door, sealing the light out. The dark cushioned them once more. Bob slanted his head toward Sunstreaker, but he couldn’t smell anything off. He could dimly see Sunstreaker as a faint blur of color. It was much too dark for anything clearer. Sunstreaker had his face resting on his knees, hands tucked around them. It was almost cozy, until Sunstreaker, not understanding there were some things you never needed to discuss, broke his silence.

“So, you like heads, huh?”

Bob made a strangled incredulous noise. Like heads? Sunstreaker shouldn’t mock him like this in an enclosed space.

“No?”

Sunstreaker tilted his head to look at him, glowing blue eyes piercing in the gloom.

“All of these heads. You have been planning this for a while. A courtship thing?”

Bob warbled out an affirmative. Humiliating, but true. It was good that his old hive wasn’t around to hear how badly he had screwed up. They would have killed him for the embarrassment.

“Ah. Bob. This was what I was talking about.” Sunstreaker leaned forward, “You keep treating Prowl like an insecticon, but he’s not. He’s a mech. You need to, uh, romance him the way mechs do.”

Bob hissed. How was he supposed to do that? He wasn’t a mech. He didn’t know what weird and unsanitary things they liked to do behind closed doors.

“They, um. The gift wasn’t a bad idea, it was just… Mechs like gifts that are something they needed. Not,” Sunstreaker looked away, “Whatever the heads were supposed to be.”

Bob whistled softly. Gifts of need? That was something hivemates were supposed to take care of, but mecha were isolated, even in large ships like this one. There would be no artistry, no symbolism in it, but he did know of something he could gift. His plating heated at the sheer inappropriateness of it all. Bob churred out his thanks.

“Okay. Good talk. Also, I know this will break some obscure rule or another, but next time let me know what you’re doing okay? I can screen your ideas for you.”

Bob shifted closer, so they could warm the air between them. It was comfortable, companionable even. They should do this more often. Sunstreaker reached over him to tug a partially crushed head, that mech had been slippery, closer for a better view.

“This kinda looks like Sideswipe, doesn’t it? Since we are going to have to get rid of them anyways can I keep this one? I know just the thing to do with it.”

Bob twitched with the repressed urge to knock into the boxes until an avalanche of them came down, and escape while Sunstreaker was still disoriented. What a question. His hivemate had no idea what an obscene thing he had just suggested. Sunstreaker couldn’t see him without light, but Bob still felt the need to hide as he reluctantly gave permission anyways. He was among mecha now. He needed to get used to their infuriating, ridiculous ways. If Sunstreaker planned to display it. It was going to meet an unfortunate end. Bob was grateful, but not that grateful. Some lines were not meant to be crossed. Sunstreaker placed the head in his lap, brow furrowed with concentration. He rubbed it, and inspected his fingers closely with a frown.

“Bob is this my polish?”

~`~  
Wheeljack’s lab was strategically placed nine levels away from any inhabited parts of the ship. Its exact location was supposed to be a secret. That way no one could by accident, or on purpose, step foot inside it. Prowl thought that they should have placed neon flashing arrows leading you exactly where it was. Most people who broke into Wheeljack’s lab did so only by mistake. Prowl has seen the panicked expressions on Decepticons when they realized just where it was there they ended up. Watching them scratch at the door and cry made an entertaining security tape, but the cleanup wasn’t worth it. If he ever had to take care of a bunch of sparklings ever again it would be too soon. That disaster lead to a new saying among the security crew. 

_What happened in Wheeljack’s lab stayed in Wheeljack’s lab._

Prowl is the only person who wasn’t a scientist who willingly spent any time there. Perceptor had calculated the chance of an accident happening and had determined that the longest anyone could be in there and remain safe was 18 minutes on the dot. 

Prowl has been inside for 78 minutes. Long past the danger zone, but he still had all of his limbs intact. 

There was a method to Prowl’s madness.

Against most people’s instincts to try to tuck themselves in the only clear area left. Prowl flanked the tables bowed under the weight of Wheeljack’s experiments stacked ceiling high. None of them had labels. It would have given Perceptor a spark attack to see the disregard for lab safety protocol. But, this was Wheeljack’s discard table. Most of them had the functioning parts removed. The rest were waiting for Wheeljack to repurpose them. 

No– the true place you didn’t want to linger was in the clearing. Wheeljack liked to pace there. He had a lot of nervous energy he needed to burn off. When someone blocked his only avenue, he got desperate. A desperate Wheeljack was something no one should ever want near them when within a blast radius.

It was perfectly safe as long as the visitor knew what they were doing.

Wheeljack fiddled with a black box mounted below his old analogue screen. The screen remained stubbornly dark. Prowl looked on with polite interest. Perhaps it had finally reached the end of its lifetime. It has seen several explosions that would have knocked Ironhide over. 

Prowl cleared his throat, “Wheeljack you don’t have to–”

Wheeljack jerked up knocking his head into the underside of the screen making the whole wall shudder. Prowl winced and eyed the nearby bubbling beakers. The motion hadn’t managed to upset them. This was the only part of the lab that made him nervous. Surely there was a better place for them then by the highly trafficked area that was Wheeljack’s presenting assistant. 

Wheeljack wheeled back clutching his head, “What? No, no I got this. It’s only a little problem. I just need to–”

The screen flickered on. A little staticy, but functional.

Wheeljack waved his hand at it, beaming. “See! A minor problem. I told you I could fix it.”

Prowl felt confident enough to place an elbow on the table. It had been a long couple of weeks of being on his feet. Battle after battle. They did win, so any sacrifice he had made was worth it. He would have loved to sit in the chair, but it was by the beakers, and thus Wheeljack. He couldn’t help, but eye it with longing. He dragged his attention back to his host.

“I never said you couldn’t,” Prowl said. “Go on. Didn’t you have something you wanted to show?”

Wheeljack startled, “Ah yes, yes. Give me a moment. This glitched remote you see–” 

It only took a minute to sort out this newest technological trouble, and the screen switched over to a graph. It was neatly labeled with multiple colors to delineate between the bars. A chemical breakdown of the embossed container Prowl had found upon his doorstep. He made sure to look suitably impressed. Perceptor must have helped him make it. Wheeljack used to do live demonstrations with the actual chemicals on hand. That hadn’t been a problem when he was an academic instructor. When he started analyzing bombs on the other hand. Primus. The rooms they lost to sneezes alone. Prowl usually had no issue with indulging Wheeljack’s showmanship, but every strut in his body was aching. His head sank low to be propped up by his hand.

Wheeljack took out his laser pointer, and circled the labels on the graph as if they weren’t plainly evident. Prowl felt a groan building up in his chest. 

“23% chromium, 5% mercury, 2.1 % lead–”

There was 17 more bars on that graph. 17 bars. There was no way he would last that long.

“What is your point Wheeljack?”

Wheeljack fumbled with his laser pointer. Prowl was getting nauseous looking at it dance around the room. He shut his eyes. 

“It’s clean Prowl. It looks like your favorite energon blend actually–”

“Can you please check again?” Prowl asked softly without looking up.

“That would be a waste. I have other experiments to attend to–”

“I have people out to kill me. Caution is appropriate here. I am not being weird.”

A beat of silence. 

“I didn’t say you were.”

Prowl peeled his eyes reluctantly open. Wheeljack had his head cocked to the side. His hands were empty. Did he put away his laser pointer?

“I didn’t say that you said I was,” Prowl muttered. 

Wheeljack bounced in place and said, “I think that it might be from someone who cares about you! A lot of those additives are nutrient dense, helping with recovery from injuries. You have been having a rough time of it lately. Maybe someone wanted to do something nice for you–”

“It’s more likely to be a trick. To lure me into trust then poison me–” Prowl said into his hand.

“This doesn’t fit their MO and you know it,” Wheeljack huffed, “Their methods were crude and simple. That would make them risk getting caught every time they came aboard to leave it. It’s more likely that you have a secret admirer! I can do the math to prove it. Hold on–” 

Wheeljack started to dig around in another pile of assorted junk. Prowl checked his fuel level. Not good. He couldn’t afford to be here for much longer. Warnings were flashing in the corner of his vision. If he crashed here he would never hear the end of it. Wheeljack could be very fussy to say the least. That wasn’t taking into account _Ratchet._ Prowl shuddered.

“Don’t be stupid. I have already calculated the odds. I know I am right.”

Wheeljack froze. Prowl regretted the words the moment they were out of his mouth, but if they would let him leave it would be worth it. He could make it back up to Wheeljack later. Prowl firmed his mouth against any apology that wanted to spill forth. Wheeljack turned away, so Prowl couldn’t see his expression, and paced the length of the lab, twice, getting more frenzied as he went. The guilt outpaced his common sense, and Prowl was about to admit why he said what he did, but Wheeljack whirled around to face him, before he could.

“Fine then!” Wheeljack dropped down into the office chair, and began to spin himself around. 

Prowl had not intended to make him this upset. Wheeljack was one of the smartest people alive. Stupid should be a ridiculous joke when it was applied to him.

Prowl excelled with predicting battlefields not people. 

Never People.

“It is mathematically impossible that anyone could care about you more than they want to hurt you. Even if they did initially you would provide ample incentive to feel otherwise. Congratulations Prowl. You are right yet again.” The chair rotated ominously close to the fizzing table of chemicals.

Prowl stiffened. That stung. He knew it was coincidental echo of the words he had heard from Sunstreaker, but it still stabbed him. 

“I see,” He said calmly, “I must be going now. Thank you for your time.”

Prowl plucked the energon container up, and hid it away in his subspace. Wheeljack planted his feet on the floor, but the built up momentum dragged him across several unsecured wires tangling his feet up with the chair most spectacularly. Wheeljack cursed and tried to remove the wires without snapping them.

“Wait! That was joke, a dumb joke. I didn’t mean it.”

Prowl didn’t look back. The door was in sight. Wheeljack would calm down without him there to agitate him further. It would be better, if he was gone.

“I know it was. I’m overdue for work, and you need to attend to your experiments. It’s fine.”

Wheeljack managed to get his hands trapped in the wire as well. He wiggled his fingers experimentally. Something creaked. That wasn’t good.

“Would you slow down already? I want to apologize! What you said upset me, and I reacted poorly.”

Prowl continued on without a pause. He hit the override buttons for the lab door, “No apologies necessary.”

Wheeljack lunged after him, “Prowl–”

He was still tangled with the chair. It wobbled on the cusp of disaster, before toppling over sending Wheeljack crashing face first into the floor. Wires snagged the table legs jerking it over. Beakers of every color shattered on top of him. The resultant mixture started boiling immediately sending up thick black smoke.

“Prowl. I know I am not in the position to be asking favors, but could you please call Ratchet?” Wheeljack said weakly.

Prowl froze with one leg over the threshold in horror. He had not intended for this to happen. This wasn’t the first accident that he had been in person to see, but this was the first one that was his fault. The smoke blanketed the room, thick and heavy. He could see the vaguest outline of Wheeljack beneath the chair through it.

“I did that before I arrived.”

Wheeljack shivered under the chair. “You did?”

Prowl didn’t know how to answer that. Of course he had. Ratchet had a remote alert system set up whenever Prowl went in. Ratchet didn’t have it active all the time for the sake of Wheeljack’s privacy, but he had grumbled more than once that he should have.

“It seemed prudent. You don’t want me to—?”

Wheeljack moaned softly, “No, no. Please don’t. Ratchet is already going to kill me. If you get hit too. It’ll be so much worse.”

Wheeljack strained his neck up. He could barely see Prowl through the murk. The room was getting hazy in a way that had nothing to with the smoke. Prowl was still standing there like an idiot. He knew better. He had a supercomputer in his brain, but he didn’t run the moment the beakers dropped. Wheeljack was so touched his eyes teared up. That, or the nitric acid currently pooling on his back had reached his lacrimal system.

“You’re a great friend. I love you so much,” He sniffed.

“And you are delirious. Ratchet will be here soon.”

Prowl finally moved out of the way, so the door could automatically lock down. The potential contamination alarm sounded, a continuous high pitched scream that cycled higher and higher, before dipping down again. Prowl pushed away from the door, and staggered to the decontamination showers with one hand on the wall to steady him. Oily smoke drifted lazily on the ceiling behind him. 

He and Sunstreaker had something in common after all. Prowl didn’t want to be Prowl either.

**Author's Note:**

> BalloonArcade did some beta work for me, but I did not show her the final draft, so any mistakes are mine.


End file.
